


Save The Last Dance For Me

by Batsymomma11



Series: Blark Files [14]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hidden Relationship, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Mild Language, Soft Boys, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 03:46:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18003203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: "There were parties and secret dates and long nights where Clark understood that. Respected it.And others, where the longing to kiss Bruce freely, to tell others about their relationship, was incredibly, painfully, strong.Those nights—this night—made him feel the bitter tang of not being recognized and made him want too much."Bruce and Clark have been keeping their long-term relationship secret for years. It takes its toll.





	Save The Last Dance For Me

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own DC or its characters. 
> 
> It's been a bit. I've missed my simple Blark fics while I've been writing Faceless Killer. So here, have some angsty fluff.

                “I don’t—It’s not my thing, Clark.”

                “Oh?” Clark asked softly, reaching for the hands that were hanging loosely between those long slacks covered legs. The sight of Bruce Wayne in a tuxedo never got old. Probably because it didn’t happen as often as one might expect. And also because Clark was a sucker for that debonair, slightly untouchable look. Bruce pulled it off immensely well. And tonight, he’d damn near done it to the point of distraction.

                “Come on,” Clark murmured, drawing Bruce up to his feet, tugging the smaller man closer so their bodies lined up like they should, “Let me have a moment. No one is watching. No one will see.”

                “It isn’t about that,” Bruce groused. But Clark could see the red on the tops of his ears. He could feel the tension in Bruce’s shoulders. It was. At least in part. Bruce didn’t like to be seen as weak. Dancing after midnight in the skeleton of a party, might qualify as such. Bruce was hardly okay with being seen with Clark _in this way_ at all _._ Let alone adding in any romantic flavors.

                Behind closed doors, that was a different affair altogether.

                Bruce could be very amorous and affectionate. He could be outright sappy. But the moment they could be seen together, or someone might notice that he had a weak chink in that shiny armor, Bruce grew hesitant. Occasionally harsh or cruel.

                “One dance,” Clark whispered, dragging his lips past Bruce’s ear to watch the man shiver. Bruce swayed closer, unable to help his reaction to their closeness and sighed into Clark’s space, so tantalizing close. So warm and welcome in the embrace of Clark’s arms.

                “You’re sure no one is watching?”

                Clark nodded, eyes scanning casually over the gardens, out past the marble railing into the spacious lawns of Wayne manor. Any drunken stragglers wouldn’t care, nor would they likely remember if they saw Bruce Wayne in the arms of his lover.

                Bruce eyed the dim windows at their backs, chewed his bottom lip, then nodded. He shuffled till nothing separated them, breath huffing out in a stream of exhaustion as Clark’s hand found his waist and the other wound into his remaining one.

                They didn’t dance to music. They didn’t dance well. It was more a swaying in balmy summer air. But it was a sway that soothed and made Bruce relax into Clark. It made Clark’s throat tight and his eyes slip closed to savor the warmth of keeping Bruce so close. Eyes shut, he took stock of all the details that made the man he loved.

                The details that he should but did not always take the time to notice.

                Sandalwood cologne and the faint scent of spiced deodorant. Firm shoulders, rough hands and a tapered waist. Soft hair that tickled Clark’s neck as Bruce leaned nearer, resting his head on Clark’s shoulder. The pretty sound of a relaxing pulse, dropping slowly into the fifties like a lulling thrum in the background.

                All sounds and smells and feelings that Clark was exquisitely familiar with. All things he knew from years of experience. He and Bruce had been doing this dance for a very long time.

                The party had been a smashing success. As they all tended to be.

                There had been drinking, laughter, fake appreciation of the dripping wealth and a tremendous amount of pretending. There always was. Clark had been coming to these parties for the last year as Bruce’s silent moral support. He wasn’t allowed to be directly in line of sight when at the parties. Bruce wouldn’t allow that. But in between dances, they’d share soft looks. They’d accidentally brush hands when standing at the wet bar. They’d tell secrets with their eyes that no one in the room knew about. And when the party emptied and the letdown left Bruce exhausted and frail, Clark swooped in to fill his rightful place at Bruce’s side.

                It should have been more upsetting than it was that Bruce was so reluctant to come out with him. It wasn’t. Probably because Clark understood the possible ramifications of doing so. And because he knew that Bruce was a cautious man. He had no interest in hurting either one of them, so his reluctance stemmed from that.

                There were parties and secret dates and long nights where Clark understood that. Respected it.

                And others, where the longing to kiss Bruce freely, to tell others about their relationship, was incredibly, painfully, strong.

                Those nights—this night—made him feel the bitter tang of not being recognized and made him want too much.

                Clark had long wanted their roles in each other’s lives to be public. He’d wanted it for maybe too long. They’d fought about it, gone back and forth over the dangers to their secret identities and keeping Clark Kent anonymous. Bruce made excellent points, but so did Clark. Clark knew he did. He was tired of pretending he didn’t practically live at the manor. Nearly all his clothes were in Bruce’s closet. His shampoo and preferred toothpaste were in his bathroom. None of the boys questioned Clark’s presence at the breakfast table anymore, nor did they tease as they once did if they caught Clark and Bruce getting handsy in the hallway or making out like teenagers in the study.

                Clark was a normal part of their life within the walls of the manor.

                But only within those walls.

                Nights like this, nights where Bruce had to work the room, pretending to be semi-interested in every offer given, every mouth proffered at him, made Clark feel—cheap. Made him feel possessive and short with Bruce. At least until everyone left. Then he always found himself forgetting his anger in favor of keeping the peace and the peace was so much better anyway.  

                He found himself desperate for touch. Desperate to hold Bruce too tightly, keep him near, measure his breaths and his heartbeats. Feed him kisses till Bruce forgot his name and trembled with as much need as was coursing through Clark. That would only be fair anyway, wouldn’t it?

                Being close physically had always managed to bring them back together, to mend wounds or speak what words could not.

                It never made the sting fully go away, but it helped. It helped enough to keep going until the next party or public appearance where Clark was not allowed. Even in the JLA, they’d kept things silent. As per Bruce’s request, of course. Clark respected Bruce’s wishes there as well.

                Maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe others would see him as a doormat or a needy pushover. Maybe he was. But behind closed doors, Bruce was _his._ And that made it worth it.

                For now.

                “We should go inside,” Clark whispered, finally breaking the silence in favor of getting Bruce to bed. The man was dead on his feet, leaning heavily into Clark’s chest for support.

                “A few more minutes.”

                Clark lifted a brow, tightening his grip on Bruce’s waist, listening to the soft intake of breath that indicated how much that affected Bruce. Bruce appeared strong to everyone. Because he had to. But when he was with Clark, the facades and the constructs fell. Bruce was just a man. A man who got weak. Who got tired. Who lost his temper and was selfish on occasion. Who snored and hogged the bed. Who loved so passionately, no one would likely believe even half of the things Bruce had said to Clark after a particularly randy night of lovemaking.

                “I thought this wasn’t your thing,” Clark chuckled, nuzzling into Bruce’s hair, letting himself savor. The swaying was so slow now it was like a hypnotic rocking.

                “Hmmmm.”

                “You’re more tired than usual.”

                “Busy week.”

                “At WE or your other work?”     

                Bruce hummed, tipping his chin up to peer at Clark with wide gray eyes dragged down by dark circles no one else would have seen but Clark. Bruce was wearing makeup to cover the purpling shadows and the bruises, but Clark could see them. He always did.

                “Other work.”

                “I’m sorry I haven’t been here then.”

                And Clark was. He’d been on assignment in Prague for a weapon’s consult. There was a new type of gun being pushed that could make automatic machine guns look like a child’s toy. Hydraulic weaponry mixed with neurotoxin made for a frighteningly deadly combination. There were rumors of its presence in Metropolis and Gotham. His absence meant he’d not been ‘home’ in days. This evening had been the first he’d seen Bruce in six days. Six days, five hours, and twenty-three minutes.

                Yes, Clark counted.

                “Will you stay tonight?”

                Clark smiled, brushing Bruce’s hair off his forehead, “Don’t I always?”

                Bruce’s eyes fluttered closed, the lines around them softening, “I never want to assume.”

                “I wouldn’t mind if you did.”

                “I know. But I’d mind. I already ask—” Bruce leaned closer, one hand fisting into Clark’s coat in the low part of his back, “I already ask too much of you.”

                Clark frowned, “I can decide for myself if it’s ever too much. And right now, it’s not.”

                “I just—”

                Clark shook his head, stopped Bruce’s words with what was meant to be a light kiss, but quickly became more when Bruce openly groaned into it and chased after his mouth. Clark easily responded, pressing demanding kisses in return on Bruce’s eager lips, biting at them till Bruce was so weak-kneed he couldn’t stand on his own.

                No one else made Bruce this way. No one.

                Clark was certain of this. And it made it all worth it.

                All the lies and the secrets and the hiding. It made it worth it.

                Clark silently tugged Bruce back inside, winding their fingers together, ignoring the warning look that Bruce shot him when he saw there were a few hired staff still lingering in clean up. Clark didn’t care. Bruce stumbled to keep up, his pupils blown so big they ate up all the color. Clark wished he could take a picture of that look for the lonely nights. Maybe Clark was taking advantage, maybe he was pushing their rules a little when he all but consumed Bruce just outside his bedroom, crushing him into the wood paneled hallway.

                He didn’t care.

                Something—something made him think that Bruce was just as weary with all the hiding. Just as tired tonight. So he pressed his advantage and cataloged every nuance for the place tattooed with Bruce’s name in his chest.   

                Hands wandered up inside his coat, untucked his shirt and gripped hard on the muscles of his spine. Clark growled low in his throat, spurred on by Bruce panting out the word ‘please’ like it was a goddamn prayer. Clark barely got them in the master bedroom, with the door closed, before he had Bruce half-naked, was tearing at the man’s remaining clothes like a wild man. Buttons popped off, a jacket sleeve tore, one sock got lost at the door.

                There had been times over the years that Clark and Bruce came together in a desperate rush of skin and passion, but more often than not, their coupling was well-thought out. Slower. Intentional. Rarely was it so frenzied and rushed.

                But Clark couldn’t see doing this any other way. Not now. Not when his blood was singing in his veins and touching Bruce was such a need it choked out any other thought. If Bruce would prefer their usual pace, he certainly showed no indication of it.  

                When he hefted Bruce up, tossed him onto the bed, the small gasp of pained sound that slipped past Bruce’s control was the only thing that managed to slow him down.

                It was like having a glass of cold water thrown into his face.  

                And when he did slow, he saw what he couldn’t see in the haze of lust. Details firmed, the cloud of lust faded.  

                Bruce’s slacks were undone, shoved midway down his thighs, shirt gone, bare chest glistening with sweat and heaving.

                Perfection.

                Except—this perfection was covered in bruises. Angry bruises. Livid on the pale skin to the point Clark could literally see where there were handprints on those biceps and on that perfect column of a throat. Stitches fresh enough they looked red along the seams, where they’d been aggravated.

                Clark had done that.

                “Bruce—” Clark hissed, “Bruce what is _that_?”

                Bruce was blinking at Clark, his cheeks pink and hair mussed. Mouth red from their kisses. He looked dazed and when Clark simply stood there, glaring at him, the dazed looked faded to something Clark hadn’t seen maybe ever.

                Shame.

                It caused a bolt of unease to thread around his stomach and fall to his legs.

                “I—I should have called. But I didn’t want to worry you. I’m fine. Just a little roughed up.”

                “A little?” Clark growled, jabbing a finger at Bruce’s midsection which looked more like a punching bag than actual skin. “How many ribs?”

                “I—”

                Clark’s hands fisted, “How many?”

                “Three.”

                “And you let me manhandle you like that in the hall? How much of a fucking masochist are you, Bruce?”

                Bruce flinched and Clark immediately regretted what he’d said. Bruce was careful to keep some of his tendencies to himself. His kinks, as it were. He liked a little pain. He also preferred when Clark was in control, but he didn’t like those things being talked about. Clark imagined very few men would.

                Especially men like Bruce. Men who didn’t like anyone knowing they were actually human.

                Bruce shifted on the mattress, reaching for his slacks, shaking hands trying to tug them back up. It was painful to watch all the twitches of pain at the corners of his eyes and mouth. But Clark had to. Because it was Bruce. And stopping him now, getting his way now, would only make matters worse. Even if it made Clark want to rail at him.

                “What happened, Bruce? Talk to me.”

                “A job that had bad intel. It happens sometimes.”

                “Were you alone?”

                Bruce glanced over a shoulder, his mouth tight and jaw flexing, “Yes.”

                “Who?”

                “It’s—it doesn’t matter. I should have been more careful. I was distracted. Overtired.”

                “Bruce, stop. Tell me.”

                Bruce’s shoulders curved inward, the muscles in his neck going taut, “It was Bane.”

                “Bane.”

                “Yes, that’s what I said.”

                “You’re lucky you’re not in a body bag.”

                Bruce shrugged, “Maybe.”

                “Did you know it was going to be Bane? Did you know beforehand?”

                “That hardly matters—”

                Clark shook his head, though Bruce wouldn’t be able to see it. “It matters. It matters to me, Bruce.”

                When nothing else was said, when the room fell so quiet it was stifling, Clark gave up on patience and stalked around to Bruce’s front to confront the man directly.

                “You knew.”

                “I—”

                “You fucking knew, and you didn’t bring backup. You didn’t even tell me. _Me._ One phone call and I could have come home. Three fractured ribs, Bruce. And your—” Clark’s vision blurred and for a frightening moment, he wondered if he might actually cry about this. He didn’t particularly want to. Not right now. Maybe alone. Later. “your neck, for Christ-sake. How the fuck did you hide that tonight and manage to talk at all?”

                Bruce was looking at the floor, his face still flushed, one arm sheepishly trying futilely to cover the wounds on his torso, “Painfully.”

                “Why didn’t you tell me?”

                “I didn’t want you to worry.”

                “Well, then you failed. Miserably. Because I’m worried, Bruce. More worried than I have been in quite some time. Do you have a death wish?”

                “No.”

                “You sure about that? Because all the evidence I’m staring at, points to the contrary.”

                “It was a mistake,” Bruce gritted out, “I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t want you to do _this_. I didn’t want to distract you from your work in Prague and then I—I just didn’t want it to be a big deal. I’ll be fine. No lasting damage.”

                “No lasting damage. Great,” Clark tossed both hands in the air, “Bring out the band and celebrate. Bruce, goddamn it. You’re turning forty next month. And you think that’s all that matters anymore? No lasting damage? You can’t keep doing this and not expect any repercussions.”

                “I know.”

                “Then what the hell did you think you’re doing?”

                “I’m—I’m—” Bruce swallowed, his throat working past those garish bruises and Clark felt the pang of knowing how badly that had to hurt him, deeply. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing Clark. It was a mistake. I fucked up. And I’m sorry. Just—please.”

                “Please?”

                Bruce nodded, looking up for the first time in five minutes, startling Clark with how wet the man’s eyes looked. “Please just let it go. Just—not tonight. Let me pretend for tonight. I’ve been off for weeks and I need to not think tonight.”

                “It doesn’t work that way, Bruce.”

                “I need it to. Just for right now.”              

                “What does that even mean?”

                Bruce shook his head, the wet managing to make it past one eyelid to slip wretchedly down one cheek. It made Clark’s chest _ache_ to see it.

                “It means—I’m working through a few things. And I need to forget for a few hours. I need you to be with me. Just us. And I’ll—I’ll talk to you in the morning. Please.”

                Clark didn’t think he’d heard Bruce say that word so many times in so little span of time. Ever. It was—unsettling. Frightening. Worrying.

                They didn’t make love like planned. Clark helped Bruce get undressed, then get redressed in soft pajamas, careful not to aggravate the bruises and cuts. Then Bruce snuggled in tight to Clark’s side, burying his face in Clark’s chest and a handful of minutes later, was asleep. Clark took much longer to fall asleep.

               

 

                Morning brought sunrise and a customarily crabby Bruce.

                Clark said very little which could aggravate the foul mood he could see even before Bruce managed to utter a growly ‘coffee’ at him. Clark always got the coffee, so it wasn’t much of a surprise he was expected to do so now.

                He heard the shower flip on while he was in the kitchen and silently prayed that Bruce would feel better after the hot water did some magic. Just to be safe, he grabbed a bottle of pain killers and made some toast to go with the coffee. By the time he got upstairs again, Bruce was sitting in the middle of the bed, swimming in Clark’s sweatshirt and looking determinedly at his bare feet. His hair was damp and curling at his ears, face pink from the warm water. Tension rippled between them, a prequel to whatever Bruce felt he needed to say.  

                “So—” Clark hummed, dropping the small tray of coffee and toast onto the nightstand.

                “We need to talk.”

                “This sounds serious,” Clark grabbed the coffee off the tray first and handed a mug to Bruce. Bruce gratefully accepted it and sipped before answering. He looked smaller than his two-hundred-pound frame drowning in Clark’s Metro-U sweatshirt. It was charming.

                “I should have called you when I got hurt.”

                “Yes, you should have. Why didn’t you?” Clark paused, “Why didn’t you really?”

                “Because I didn’t want anyone to know that I needed you.”

                “Bruce—”

                “And because if I had called you, you would have had to explain to Perry why you left Prague and a career boosting story without mentioning me and I didn’t want to put you in that position. Again.”

                Clark nodded, “That’s not—”

                “I can’t do this.”               

                Such a small sentence should not have the ability to make Clark’s blood run cold. But it did.

                “Do what?”

                Bruce was still looking at his feet, one hand buried in the big kangaroo pocket of the hoody, the other grasping his mug coffee till his knuckles were white, “I can’t keep pretending. It’s not good for you. It’s not—it’s not good for me either.”

                “I’m not following.”

                “Clark,” Bruce was chewing on his lip again, “I told you just over a year ago that I had no intention of ever telling anyone about us. I told you it was dangerous and that it would never happen.”

                Clark remembered all too well to which Bruce was referring. He didn’t particularly feel like rehashing that. It was one of the few of their arguments where they’d both stormed off in tears and hadn’t spoken to each other for almost two weeks solid. It had been—ugly. Almost relationship ending.

                Remembering it, made Clark immediately stiff with alarm.

                “Why are you bringing this up, Bruce?”

                “Because, we can’t—we can’t keep doing this and I’ve been thinking that—that maybe I was wrong.”

                “Wrong?” Clark blinked at Bruce, felt his stomach tighten to the point of pain with stunned shock, “What does that mean Bruce?”

                “I want to—” Bruce’s mouth twisted in a scowl, “I want to tell everyone.”

                For a solid ten seconds, Clark was speechless.

                And maybe that was the wrong reaction because Bruce’s color had gone pasty white and he was swallowing over and over, like he might throw up and Clark really shouldn’t have taken so long to reply but he was just so stunned and—

                “You want to tell everyone? About us?” Clark’s voice sounded squeaky with emotion. He wasn’t embarrassed about that in the least.

                This was the best news he’d ever been given.

                “Yes. I want to. I’m—” Bruce looked like he was vibrating with nervous energy, “I know I have always been opposed to it. I’ve been stubborn and unfair. I’ve been cruel about keeping things secret. But I can’t—” those silver eyes closed, and Clark could see the exhaustion clinging like weights to the man’s shoulders, “I’m so tired of pretending you don’t matter in front of everyone. I’m tired of putting on a show. Of—of all of it. And I just—I want this one thing—this one selfish thing—just for me.”

                “Selfish? Bruce—sweetheart, how could loving me be selfish?”

                Bruce blew out a sharp breath when Clark sat on the edge of the mattress, reaching across the distance separating them to grab Bruce’s knee. “Because it means I’m putting you above Gotham. Above my mission. Above even your safety.”

                “I know you think that,” Clark started, voice dropping lower, almost into a whisper, “But you’re wrong. I’m safer because of you. I’m safer at your side, without making up a thousand pretenses to do so. And God Bruce, I’d be happier. We’d both be happier.”

                “I—” Bruce shakily drew in another breath, held it, then, “I think so too.”

                Clark took the coffee gently out of Bruce’s hand, then put it carefully back on the tray. He could hear his pulse wildly thrumming in his hears, matching the ecstatic thoughts of joy that were bouncing in his head, but he kept it harnessed. He kept his touch light when he tipped Bruce’s chin up with a finger and kissed him soundly on the mouth. He kept his hands soft and soothing when he cupped the back of his lover’s head and deepened that kiss till Bruce was shakily trying to crawl into Clark’s lap.

                “Today,” Clark whispered when they broke apart for Bruce to breathe, “I want to tell everyone today.”

                Bruce shifted, thighs gripping harder around Clark’s hips, eyes seeking Clark’s like they’d always done for confirmation. For understanding. “Okay.”            

                “Just like that?” Clark chuckled, pressing butterfly kisses to those ugly bruise marks on Bruce’s neck. Bruce tipped back and gave better access without further prompting.

                “Yes. I’m ready.”

                “Yes, you are.”

                Bruce hummed, “Not what I meant.”

                “Who said I was talking about that?”

                Bruce’s mouth tipped up at the corner, his eyes glossily smiling the rest of the way, “Today.”

                Clark breathed a sigh of relief. Of joy. Of a lot of pent up emotions, he’d never given free reign because he’d been forbidden to. Like standing underneath sunlight after a century of darkness. It was intoxicating.

                He opened his eyes and let it all pour in.

                “Today.”

               


End file.
